This part rated PG-13
=============
Chapter Four
=============
February 28, 1993
4:14 p.m.
The flight from Las Vegas to Dulles seemed to take forever.
I didn't try to tell Melissa what had happened -- not over the
phone. For one thing, I didn't know how to say it without sounding
like I'd lost my mind, and for another ... well, =I= didn't
understand what had happened, so how could I explain it to someone
else?
Of course, Missy made it easy for me. She didn't pepper me with
questions or demand explanations. She just asked how much money I
needed and made me promise to call back with my itinerary so she
could meet me at the airport.
It was then that I knew it was really her. My big sister. Growing
up, I'd always wanted to play with my brothers, and was never
concerned with the things that Missy cared about. But when I was
hurt or if the boys had played too rough, I always sought her
comfort. She never reproached me for neglecting her, and she never
mentioned it when it was over. There were times when I would doubt
that I could ever be like her: assured, generous, understanding.
When our world views began to diverge even further, she could still
make me wonder if I was wrong. Where I was argumentative, she was
calm. Where I was closed, she was open. So it was just like her
to not ask why I needed help, but just to offer it, no strings
attached. I tried to keep my emotions under control during that
phone conversation, but the balloon was a pinprick away from
bursting.
Missy was alive. She was alive and well and talking to me on the
phone. I'd =buried= her, but somehow my sister's voice was asking
me how much money I needed and where she should send it.
I didn't want to end the conversation. I needed to hear her voice.
I was sure that once I hung up with her, I'd find that it was all a
dream, that I'd fallen asleep listening to Mulder ramble on about
how the Knicks were faring this season. If this was a dream, I
wanted it to last a little while longer. On the other side of the
coin, if it wasn't, the sooner I got out of here the better.
But there came a point when the conversation had to end, helped
along by the robotic voice telling me that I only had thirty
seconds left to talk to my sister. I didn't have any more change
to prolong the conversation.
"Okay, Dana, I'll meet you at the gate," she said.
"Missy..."
"What is it? Say it fast, hurry."
"I love you. I love you, Missy--"
The line went dead. I could tell I'd lost the battle with my
emotions when I felt the wetness on my cheeks. That felt too real,
as did the unyielding cold wall I was leaning against, for this to
be a dream. Taking a deep breath, I struggled to process it all
and quickly wiped my face with the back of my hand. I needed to be
doing things; I needed to be making plans and preparations. I was
also peripherally aware of people passing by, looking at me
curiously for a few seconds as they went about their business.
My dead sister was alive. I didn't understand how that could be.
A jumble of explanations flashed through my mind, each wilder than
the one before. Trauma-induced delusion. Post-hypnotic
suggestion. Inter-dimensional travel. I almost smiled; I could
almost hear Mulder expounding such an extreme possibility. But he
wasn't here, and I had no idea how to find him.
I pulled myself together and walked a little ways down the street.
Coming across a small casino, I welcomed the shelter from the
elements and dodged patrons drunk on alcohol and vice. Reality
seemed blurred around the edges, as if I were at the center of a
merry-go-round spinning at top speed.
I managed to find a restroom, where I used the facilities and
cleaned up as best as I could. I had cuts and scrapes from my
desert adventure, and it looked like I had a nasty bump on my
forehead. Funny, I hadn't felt it at all. Now I touched it
gingerly and tried to cover it with my hair. I desperately wanted
a shower, but that would have to wait. The best thing about being
in Vegas was that no one gave me a second glance. People were far
too involved with themselves and with the never-ending pursuit of
easy money. I would have to do a lot to stand out in this crowd.
One of the cashiers told me where I could find the nearest Western
Union office, which luckily was only eight blocks or so down
Glitter Gulch. I had a little cash, but didn't want to use it
unless I absolutely had to.
As I walked, I caught sight of a bank clock, displaying the date
and time. February 28, 1993. That was odd. I tried to dismiss it
as computer error, but it kept niggling at the back of my mind.
Another idea, distinctly Mulder-like, was brewing in my mind, and
when I found a newspaper rack for the Las Vegas Review-Journal, it
was confirmed. It was 1993. Everything I knew about physics said
it was impossible, but somehow, some way, I had traveled five and a
half years back in time.
I wasn't as shocked as I might have been. I'd made a hypothesis,
and it had been proven. It explained everything I had been exposed
to since regaining consciousness after the flash of light from the
plane -- or whatever it was. The fact that it just couldn't be --
that I couldn't =be= here -- was moot. It seemed that I either had
to believe that today's date was what the newspaper and the bank
clock said it was, or accept that I had succumbed to what I had
long feared would be Mulder's ultimate fate: insanity.
But I was still rationalizing -- crazy people didn't do that. Or
did they? This had to be the result of that ... experimental
aircraft that had flown directly above us. There was no other
possible explanation. I had a vivid recollection of its sudden
appearance, right before it rushed towards us. There'd been a
strange tingling feeling all over my body, and I was lifted off my
feet. I remember Mulder's hand in mine, warm and reassuring -- and
then even that had been taken from me. The next thing I knew, it
was, apparently, 1993.
The implications of the date made me dizzy. It suddenly occurred
to me that if this were truly 1993 and Missy was alive, then my
father would be, too. I recalled that Missy had been staying with
my parents while she'd been between jobs and cities, and although
relations between her and Ahab had still been extremely tense,
she'd needed a place to live for a while.
As for myself, I'd just moved into my apartment in Georgetown. I'd
broken up with Ethan -- God, had I once been so normal as to have a
boyfriend? -- barely two weeks ago. I was teaching at Quantico.
On and on, I remembered what had been happening in my life during
this time. But through it all, my mind kept coming back to two
things: Missy hadn't been shot, and Dad hadn't had a heart attack.
So many terrible things had yet to occur.
Before I knew it, I'd reached my destination, glad to see that as
with most things in Vegas, the Western Union office was open 24/7.
The money hadn't arrived yet, but at least I didn't have to wait
outside. I knew it would take a little time -- my sister had never
been one for credit cards, so she'd have to wait for the bank to
open, which wouldn't be for at least another hour. I knew she
wouldn't go to our parents. We hadn't discussed it, but Missy
would know instinctively that that wasn't an option. We were
sisters, after all, and had experienced our share of occasions like
this. Well, not =quite= like this.
When the money came, I signed for it and caught a cab to McCarran
International, and by good fortune found that there was a flight to
Dulles leaving almost immediately. Since it was non-stop, I
decided to take it rather than wait for the one to the more
convenient National Airport -- I knew I couldn't waste time with a
stopover; I was already antsy as it was. I got some change and
called Missy quickly to deliver the flight information, then had to
run to reach the gate before the plane left. I half expected that
she wouldn't answer; part of me still thought that this couldn't be
real.
But at last I was looking out the window at the old, familiar
scenery as the plane made its final approach to Dulles. It all
seemed so eerily normal -- the rays of the sun slanting down over
the countryside, the Potomac River off to the left, the highway
almost directly beneath us that I knew from long experience was
Route 267. I could almost believe that we were returning from an
ordinary case, just as we had countless times in the past.
Of course, one thing was different, and I was reminded of it every
time I turned my head. Mulder was not sitting next to me.
The plane touched down with a slight jolt. I waited with growing
tension as we taxied across the field. I had no carry-on luggage,
of course, so I was out of my seat and heading for the exit as soon
as permission was given. To the front of the plane and past the
flight attendant with barely a nod of acknowledgment. Down the jet
way, doing my best not to run, my heart beating faster as I took
the final sharp turn. Stepping out into the terminal --
And there she was, standing a few yards away, gazing out the window
at the plane I'd just exited. My sister. Melissa. And she was
indeed alive.
It took me a few seconds to cross the intervening distance. I
didn't call to her; I couldn't. My throat had closed up, seeing
her standing there. Then I was wrapping my arms around her and
pulling her close.
"Dana?" Missy's voice was slightly muffled by my embrace. "What's
going on?" She turned in my arms and returned my hug. I buried my
face into her shoulder, my silent tears wetting her blouse. I
could smell her perfume, those scented mood oils she used to buy
that I'd told her once or twice were too cloying. At that moment,
it was the best thing I'd ever smelled in my life. She let me
carry on like this for a minute or two before finally pushing me
gently away.
"Dana?" she repeated. "Hey, Dana -- what's wrong?"
"I ... I'm just so glad to see you," I said, trying to get myself
under some semblance of control. I was still having trouble
getting the words out. "I've missed you so much."
"Yeah," she said, a touch of irony in her voice. "What has it
been? Three days? What were you doing in Vegas?" She took a step
back, and her eyes narrowed. "Jesus, Dana. What have you done to
yourself?"
I was expecting that question. It had occurred to me, on the long
flight across the country, that there would be countless
differences, large and small, between what she expected and what
she would encounter. The Dana she knew was five years younger,
heavier to the point of pudginess, and had longer hair. She wore
baggy, unstylish clothes. She had not yet been abducted or had
cancer, she didn't have a computer chip in the back of her neck
keeping her alive, and though she'd been in the FBI for a year or
two by this point, she had never been called upon to risk her life.
She was innocent.
"Dana!" Melissa said for a third time. "What the hell is going
on?"
"I ..." Again, words failed me. I'd spent the entire flight
preparing myself for this moment, but now that I was faced with the
reality of being in Missy's presence and having to tell her a story
that was impossible on its face, I was floundering.
As I should have known would happen, my sister saved me.
"Come on, Dana," she said at last. "Let's get you out of here and
find someplace quiet where we can talk." And she took my arm and
led me out of the terminal.
***
5:32 p.m.
"Okay, Dana," Missy said, settling back more comfortably into her
seat. "Let me see if I've got this straight." She stopped to take
a sip of her latte, and I let my gaze travel around the room again.
She'd taken me to Mr. Magoo's, a coffee shop in Arlington that she
and I used to frequent. I hadn't been there since the week before
she died.
"You're saying you've traveled back in time from the year 1998."
She said the words as Mulder might have spoken of sewer mutants or
spontaneous human combustion. Her tone was calm and matter of
fact. Then her eyebrow quirked and her lips quivered as she added,
"And you didn't do it in a DeLorean."
"No," I replied, shaking my head, unable to suppress a smile of my
own. This =was= Melissa; it was really her. In the end, she'd
made it incredibly easy. Her earnest attention hadn't made me feel
ridiculous, though a few times I could hardly believe the words
that were coming out of my own mouth.
"So here you are, stranded in the past," she said. "And the
obvious question is ... what do you do now?"
"Try to find a way back," I answered without hesitation. "But
first, I have to find out what happened to Mulder."
"Ah, yes. That guy you mentioned. Your partner. Any idea where
he might be?"
"No. Yes. I don't know." I took a deep breath. "I spoke to him
on the phone before I called you this morning. Three times. Only
... only it wasn't really him, if you know what I mean."
"It was his previous self -- his current self," she said. I
nodded, amazed that she was taking this all so calmly, though
really, I shouldn't have been. She continued, "How do you know
he's even here? Maybe you're the only one who was caught up in
this ... this vortex thingy, whatever it was."
"Maybe," I admitted -- but then I shook my head resolutely. "No.
He's here, I'm almost sure of it. We were standing right next to
each other, and ... and just as the plane passed over, he grabbed
my hand. We were =together=, Missy --"
"Dana," she broke in, her voice still calm and analytical. "It's
obvious you want that to be true. But listen to yourself. You
sound like ... like ..." She grinned. "You sound like =me=. Now
take a deep breath, and let's work this through from the beginning.
You and this Mulder were together, and then you weren't. You lost
consciousness, and when you woke up, he was gone. What does that
suggest to you?"
I sighed. I didn't like the implications of what she was saying,
but there was no use in denying it. I answered in a monotone, "It
suggests that we were both swept up, then were separated. He could
be anywhere -- anywhen."
I felt depression settling over me. Was it possible that Mulder
could be gone forever? Was that something I could accept?
Certainly in the past I'd faced the possibility that we could be
separated by death, but this ... somehow this seemed more final.
As if a door had been closed, never to be reopened. They say when
God closes a door, He opens a window, my Sunday school teaching
automatically supplied. For once, the platitude didn't speak to
me. I felt no comfort.
"Dana, we'll work this out, okay?" Missy reached across the table
and took my hand. "I just wanted to point out some alternatives."
She smiled. "It was scary, hearing you sound so much like me.
Have you really changed that much in five years?"
I forced myself to smile back. "I guess I hadn't thought about it
much," I said. "But yes, things have changed. =I've= changed." I
looked her in the eye and tried not to remember how she'd looked
the last time I'd seen her. I hadn't yet found the courage to tell
her what the future would bring. I swallowed and repeated, "A lot
of things have changed."
"Okay," she said. "So assuming Mulder =has= come back with you,
where would he be?"
"I'm not sure." I'd considered the question a number of times
during the long flight. "He could still be in Nevada," I began.
"I mean ... if he didn't come through to the same time and place as
I did, then he could literally be anywhere. But that doesn't give
us a handle on the problem. So I start by assuming he's there."
"That makes sense," Missy agreed. But he wouldn't stay there,
would he? I think you said you guys still operate out of D.C.?"
"Right." I chewed my lip. "And no, I don't think he'd stay there
-- not for very long, anyway, and not once he'd figured out what
had happened. Unless he had to. Or unless he was taken prisoner."
"Prisoner?" My sister's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Why would
he be taken prisoner? And by whom?"
"That ... that's complicated," I hedged. I'd given her only the
sketchiest outline of the sort of work Mulder and I did, and I
didn't want to go into it right then. "There are men -- people who
oppose the work we do, and some of them can be pretty ruthless."
"Okay. But they don't know you're here, do they?" she pointed out.
"So there's no reason to be worried about that. Not right now,
anyway." She squeezed my hand, and I let myself be reassured. "So
where would he go? Here? To D.C., I mean?"
"I suppose."
"Then we just need to figure out where," she concluded. She eyed
me for a moment, then asked, "I assume it would be a fair
assumption that he'd want to find you just as much as you want to
find him?"
"Yes," I answered. "Yes, he would." I couldn't understand how
that idea had escaped me. Of course Mulder would be looking for
me. But that would mean ... "So maybe he =is= still in Nevada," I
said, realization dawning. "Missy, I've got to get back there.
He'd be looking for me there --"
"Slow down, Dana," she interrupted. "Just take it easy. First of
all, you don't know that he's in Nevada. Even if he were, how
would you expect to find him? I think the best thing to do would
be to stay where you are. Wherever he is, he'll come here
eventually; it's the only logical rendezvous point." I nodded
reluctantly. Missy sounded like me and I sounded like her ... it
was a strange world. "And second of all --" Her features
softened. "You're exhausted, baby sis. When was the last time you
slept?"
"Baby sis? I'm older than you," I joked weakly. I'd tried to doze
on the plane, without success -- my mind had been in such a whirl
that I just couldn't manage to drift off. Mulder and I had arrived
in Las Vegas the previous afternoon, having gotten up early to
catch a plane out of Dulles. Of course, I'd been unconscious for a
time, but I counted that as a detriment rather than in the category
of 'restful slumber.' "Probably ... 24 hours. Maybe 25," I
admitted at last.
"That's what I thought." She rose from her seat and walked around
the table, then crouched down and wrapped her arms around my
shoulders. "Let me take you home," she said. "You need to sleep
for about 12 hours, then we can talk again and see if we can't make
some sense out of all this."
"I can't go home," I said. "Mom and Dad --"
"Yes, you can," she said. "You've probably forgotten -- it's been
so long for you, but Mom and Dad are visiting Aunt Olive. They'll
be gone for another ten days. No one will know you're there but
me." She straightened up and took my hand. "Come on," she
insisted. "I'm not going to kid you. Getting some sleep won't
solve all your problems. But it will help. I promise you that
things will look better in the morning."
Suddenly I was so tired I could have fallen asleep right there in
the booth next to the salt shaker. I'd been staving off my
exhaustion largely by not focusing on it, but now that Missy had
drawn my attention to that part of the problem, all I could think
of was a soft, warm bed. I let her pull me to my feet and lead me
out of the coffee shop. I was asleep before we even got out of the
parking lot.
My dreams were of Mulder.
==========END CHAPTER FOUR==========